


You're Making Me Feel Like I've Never Been Born

by anything_thats_rock_and_roll



Series: With Every Mistake, We Must Surely Be Learning [2]
Category: Revolver - The Beatles, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Bickering, M/M, McLennon, Miscommunication, Recording, Revolver - Freeform, She Said She Said, sort of happy ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25649962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anything_thats_rock_and_roll/pseuds/anything_thats_rock_and_roll
Summary: Tensions erupt between John and Paul during the recording of She Said She Said, but their issues go deeper than just the music.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: With Every Mistake, We Must Surely Be Learning [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859545
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	You're Making Me Feel Like I've Never Been Born

**Author's Note:**

> While I was researching for So I Lit A Fire, I discovered that She Said She Said is the only Beatles song Paul McCartney didn't play on at all, after he stormed out of the studio over ... something. That was way too good a situation to pass up, so here's my version of what happened. This one is a little more bleak than the last, but it has some sweet moments still. The grumpiness within the band over Paul's reluctance to try LSD has always intrigued me, so I dug into that a little here as well.

“What would ye know about it anyway?” John pauses for maximum effect. “S’not like you’ve _been there_.”

Silence descends thick and hot on the room. George and Ringo share a nervous glance, but Paul doesn’t notice. The edges of his vision have dimmed, leaving only John at the center.

It had been a long day: convening at the studio at 10 to start a marathon mixing session cut short by the realization that they were a song short of a full album, the frantic search for a suitable solution, endless rehearsals of John’s unfinished track in a desperate bid for 11th hour brilliance. Paul envies the careless confidence with which John had declared “Let’s just get it done.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything “just” about it. Although John’s melody is undoubtedly ace, nothing else makes any sense to Paul’s ears. The lyrics wind around themselves in circuitous dialogue against a hiccupping rhythm that just isn’t hitting. The 3/4 break in the bridge sounds like a repeat of his own We Can Work It Out, coupled with a nonsensically nostalgic lyric shift.

“Let’s bag this one, save it for later,” Paul had suggested after the 15th take.

“It’ll be a good song, with enough time to figure it out. Let’s not stuff it up by rushing,” he’d pleaded at the end of the 23rd.

“What are you even _singing_?” he’d cried in frustration, as the middle eight broke down into a discordant clamor _again_.

John’s words ring in his ears. _S’not like you’ve been there._ And that’s the root of it, isn’t it? John has ascended to some higher plane, leaving Paul alone with his feet on the ground.

George scuffs a boot against the ground, clearly uncomfortable, but doesn’t say anything. His body is subtly turned towards John, awaiting their leader’s next move, and Paul realizes that George agrees with him. Never mind that it was Paul who fought for his place in the band to begin with. He’s joined John on his Icarian journey towards the sun, and Paul has become an afterthought.

Suddenly it’s all too much, and Paul shoves his bass into John’s chest as he pushes past. “Oh, fuck you! Play it your bleedin’ self then,” he shouts as the door slams shut behind him. His chest heaves as he speeds down the sterile white hallway, searching for some place he can claim for refuge.

As he drops into an alcove near a staircase, a conversation with Ringo floats into his mind.

“Why don’t ye just try it?” the drummer had asked mildly, after one of John and Paul’s now-customary rows. “Y’don’t have to take it up ev’ryday or anythin’. Jus’ to get them off yer back.”

Paul heaved a sigh. “S’the principle of the thing. ‘M not going to do it just because John tells me to.”

That’s what it always comes back to. Him and John. John and him. If he’s honest with himself, it’s not just about resisting peer pressure. Ever since John dropped acid, he’s changed. Sometimes he’s sweeter and softer, but mostly he’s less interested in Paul. As if Paul isn’t worth knowing, or fucking, or _loving_ , if his mind isn’t “expanded.” Acquiescing at this point would feel like a desperate attempt to hold onto a lover who’s already gone, and Paul can’t, _won’t_ , reduce himself to that.

And speak of the devil, John comes barreling into the quiet alcove, shattering the fragile peace in the way that comes so naturally to him. Paul feels his anger rise up again. He opens his mouth, prepared to tell John off, but before he can utter a word John is on him, their lips sliding roughly as John’s tongue pushes into his mouth.

John’s hands find his hips and shoves him against the nearest wall, effortlessly slotting a thigh between Paul’s own. Paul reaches up, intending to push him away, but instead finds that his hands wind into John’s hair, dragging him closer. It’s as good a way as any to vent their frustrations, and Paul will take what he can get. John rocks down against him, grinding against Paul’s thigh, and Paul realizes that he’s already half hard.

Paul lets out a rough breath as John attacks his neck, teeth digging into his pulse point. He can feel John’s smirk against his skin. Paul whines as John pulls away, smirk still firmly in place as he turns his head up toward Paul.

“How about it, Mister McCharmly? Tape’s rollin’, clock’s tickin’.”

Paul can see the confidence in his eyes, his complete assurance that Paul will return and play nicely now that he’s been paid this token amount of attention. He realizes that, short of John’s bullish comment, he probably would have. Despite his fiery words in the studio, Paul doesn’t think he ever _really_ intended to let a Beatles song be tracked without him.

But John couldn’t hold his tongue, and now Paul feels resolve cement in his stomach. He pushes John away.

“Guess you’d better get back to it, then,” he spits his shoulder before ducking into a staircase and hightailing it out of the building. Following the sidewalk in the vague direction of town, he imagines John returning to the studio to tell the others that Paul won’t, in fact, be back tonight. _Serves him right_ , Paul thinks bitterly.

The stars twinkle down at him from the pitch-black sky, taunting Paul with their luster. A chill works its way beneath his sweater, and he realizes he left his coat back at the studio. He kicks at a rock, sending it spinning off into the gutter. He thinks that must be something like how he looks about now, tearing away from the studio, away from John.

A flickering neon sign catches his eye, advertising some hole in the wall pub. Paul ducks inside without pausing to think about it, deposits himself on a bar stool, orders a pint. He stares deep into the dark amber liquid, as if answers will come bubbling out of it.

When he eventually gets around to taking a sip, he catches the bartender’s just slightly too-interested eyes on him. Stupid, he thinks, to forget he’s a Beatle, even for a moment. Should be used to it by now. He heaves a sigh and throws a coin on the bar, leaving the nearly full glass behind as he slips back into the night.

He wanders around London for a while, taking random turns and side streets. It occurs to him that perhaps it’s slightly unsafe: Paul McCartney, alone and unaccounted for, in the middle of a bleak London night. It feels safer than any alternative he can think of, though: getting recognized in a pub, seeking refuge with a friend who will more than likely want to know what’s got him all worked up, going back to his empty house to wallow.

Still, it doesn’t take long for the cold to get to him, its steely fingers freezing him from the inside out. He reluctantly heads in the direction of home, though it’s felt less of a home since the others fled London. It gets lonely, being the only hold-out from suburban life, but Paul can’t bring himself to give it up.

He stumps up the front steps, rummaging for his keys, but when his hand lands on the handle it swings open easily. “What in…” he trails off, noticing a light on in the kitchen. With more than a little trepidation, he makes his way into the house. 

Sitting there, steaming cup of tea in hand, looking for all the world like he owns the place, is John Lennon. He inclines his head to Paul, welcoming him into his own house, and asks, “Wouldya like a cuppa?”

Paul nods, bewildered. “Bloody cold out there,” he manages finally.

“Should be, ‘s four in the fuckin’ morning.” John doesn’t say _I was worried about you_ , but Paul hears it anyway. At least, he thinks he does.

Paul sits, silently accepting the steaming mug John passes him, and waits. Patience has never been John’s strong suit; Paul knows he won’t have to speak first. He also knows it’s a childish game he’s playing, but John has always made him feel young: in the worst ways, and in the best.

“C’mere,” John finally says, gesturing for him to move closer. Paul scoots his chair in John’s direction. John shrugs off his jacket, wrapping it firmly around Paul’s shoulders. He molds Paul’s hands against the warm mug, pets his hair and flinches at the chill.

“Christ Macca, are ye tryin’ t’freeze to death?” he admonishes, but his voice has no bite to it. Paul feels himself leaning into the touch, betrayed by his own body. His eyes slip closed, letting his face rest against John’s palm. For a moment, everything is still and quiet and right.

“We finished the song.” All the warmth that had seeped into Paul is extinguished the moment John opens his mouth. He jerks upright, cool air stinging against his cheek in the absence of John’s hand.

Paul can’t think of anything he wants to say to that, so he mutters a bland, “Good for you.” He swears he can feel John’s face darken, though it’s out of his sight.

“So you’ll be handing in yer resignation any day now, then.”

Paul feels the words slice past his flesh, feels the venom drip down into the wounds and permeate his very being.

“Never said that,” he huffs.

“Ye didn’t have to. S’clear ‘nough that you can’t wait to be shot of me.”

Paul sighs. This is, without a doubt, the most frustrating thing about loving John Lennon. The way he can switch from soft to deadly in a single breath, can twist anything into an attack, then into a wound, and back again. Paul doesn’t particularly feel like reassuring John at this moment, not when he’s just gone and recorded a bloody song and left Paul out.

“Doesn’t seem to have ‘eld up yer progress, now does it?” Paul asks. “Surprised you ‘aven’t shown me the door.”

“Come off it,” John scoffs. “You know we’d never get anythin’ done ‘round here without Captain McCartney at the helm.” His voice is bitter in a way that lets Paul know a part of him actually believes it.

Paul privately agrees, but it’s nice anyway to hear John say it. Still- “What about today then?”

John groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Bloody hell, Macca! What choice did you leave me, after you fucked off into the night?”

“Don’t you put this on me! You made it right clear that you didn’t want to hear my thoughts. Not if they weren’t neon and acid-laced.” Paul can hear the resentment in his voice, the weeks of being left out and less than ripening into a torrential bitterness.

“The song is about an acid trip!” John cries. “You’re shooting in the dark, mate.”

“It’s still a bloody song!” Paul shoots back. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s music.”

John falls silent, unwilling to concede the point but unable to refute it. Finally, he looks up at Paul, his myopic stare burning with intensity.

“You’ve got to stop punishing me for having taken it,” he says, halfway between a command and a plea.

“You’ve got to stop punishing me for not,” Paul responds, voice hard.

Paul holds his gaze until John looks away, to the now-cold cups of tea still on the table. In all the time they’ve known each other, nothing had ever come between them like this. Even in those early, brutal days of mutual pining, fear, and the certainty of unrequited love, Paul had never doubted they would find a way to keep working and laughing and living together. Now he isn’t so sure, but he’ll be damned if he’s the one to let their flame burn out without fighting for it.

“I’d like to hear the song,” Paul offers. John’s eyes snap up.

“There’s a mixing session tomorrow.”

Paul shakes his head. “Why wait? No one’s to stop us from going now.” John eyes him uncertainly, trying to suss out exactly what he’s on about. “I’d like to hear it with you. Not the others. I want to hear _you,_ ” Paul explains.

“Alright then.” There’s a hint of a smile back on John’s face, Paul’s words and the prospect of potential mischief sparking some life in him. Not bothering to reclaim his coat, he grabs Paul’s hand and drags him off into the night.

EMI looks different tonight, as they steal through empty hallways past skeleton crew workers. Though no stranger to late night sessions, this is the first time Paul has seen the stirrings of dawn creep through its paper-thin windows. Paul pushes open the door to the control room while John fumbles for the light switch. They stay silent, as though by some unspoken agreement, as they scan the room for the session’s tapes.

“Bugger,” John mumbles, breaking the quiet as the spool he was holding clatters to the ground. Paul wonders if the agreement was all in his head to begin with. He watches John mess about with the tape machine, clearly unused to operating it without the aid of trained engineers. Paul steps forward, batting John’s hands away from the poor machine before carefully slotting the reel into place himself.

“Where’d y’learn to do that?” John asks as Paul presses a button and strains of music pour out from the speakers.

“I spend a lot of time here. Ye pick things up.” He can feel John’s eyes on him.

 _She said_ … John’s voice soars above the hummocky swell of guitars and drums. A wiry guitar riff parrots his melody and Paul is sucked into the sonic landscape the other three have created. Ringo’s drumming is as good as Paul has ever heard it, cascading backwards fills tumbling into all the right places. The bass line is simple but propulsive, anchoring the rollicking layers that swirl around it. Paul imagines George carefully picking out the notes on his Hofner and his stomach curdles slightly.

“Ye could still play on it, y’know,” John offers quietly. Paul’s head snaps up. “There’s time enough for that, ‘f you want it.”

To his surprise, Paul realizes that, now John’s offered, he doesn’t really want it. The brick in his stomach dissolves and he offers John an honest smile.

“Nah, and why would I do that?” Paul shakes his head. “It sounds good. _Really_.”

John’s answering smile makes the whole room feel warmer. “Came out alrigh’, I think.” But then he sobers, eyes locking on Paul. “But I don’ like recording without ye. Feels different.”

“Yeah, probably goes a lot quicker,” Paul tries to pass it off with a laugh that doesn’t quite land.

“I mean it,” John says earnestly. “I need you, Paul.”

“I need you too,” Paul admits, “Always ‘ave.”

Looking at John in this moment- eyes soft and trusting, an easy smile curving his lips- Paul can believe it’s true. But then he thinks back to the sprawling, frozen spaces that have been growing silently between them, and can’t help but think he’d be foolish to trust that it always will be.


End file.
